Joy in the Understanding
by winter machine
Summary: How will Addison's child make sense of Sam's role in her life?


**Rachael's prompt: Addison's kid doesn't understand Sam.**

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><p><em>"But this baby isn't going to have a father..."<em>

**Joy in the Understanding**

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><p>It's a long time before she understands.<p>

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><p>When she's three, she thinks it's that he doesn't like her toys.<p>

He took away her drum set and put it somewhere she couldn't find. He doesn't like the book that talks or the funny shoes that make horn noises when she clomps around in them. Now she's pulling her toy in the hall, a baby one but she still likes it because it goes pop! pop! like popcorn and a vacuum cleaner all in one.

Sam and Mommy are sitting on the couch cuddling like it's bedtime.

"Joy!" Sam says in a loud voice. "You're supposed to be in your room!"

She's a big girl but his voice is bigger so she cries. Just a little.

Mommy picks her up and holds her tight. "I know you didn't mean to startle us," Mommy says right next to her ear. "It's okay."

"We never get a moment alone!" That's what Sam says but it's silly because he's alone right now, walking out of the room.

"Sam-" Mommy says but he's already gone.

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><p>When she's five, she thinks it's that he doesn't like playing.<p>

"Addison, can't you keep her quiet?" He's talking low but Joy can still hear him. It makes her mad because she _is _quiet. She's playing fairies very, very quietly on the staircase in the hall. She needs all the steps because there's a troll monster that's hiding in a cave made out of two cloth napkins from the kitchen, and the fairies are-

"She's just playing," her mom says.

"Maybe this isn't going to work."

Joy isn't sure what Sam means. They're not going to work; they're both home now. Or maybe he means that he's not getting any work done. She's supposed to be quiet because he's working. But maybe she just doesn't understand, because her mom's voice sounds sad when she talks again, and sort of wet like she's crying.

The door closes hard **- **it's loud, louder than her game. It's the troll monster coming after her fairies. She snuggles closer onto the stairs so she can protect the fairies. Her mom's really crying now, her voice all smushed like her face in a pillow. Joy leaves her toys on the stairs and pads through the hall to find her.

"I'm sorry, baby. It's okay, I'm not upset, it's just-"

"Is Sam mad at me, Mommy?"

"No, sweetie. No. He just - he just-"

"-doesn't like playing," Joy finishes. Her games are bad. They're loud, even when they're supposed to be quiet. Sam likes it really, really quiet.

"Yeah, baby." Her mom puts her arms around her and Joy snuggles in nice and tight. "That's right. That's what it is."

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><p>When she's seven, she thinks it's that he doesn't like to dance.<p>

It's the father-daughter thing at school. They announced it a month ago and she waited to ask at home because it made her feel kind of funny. A father is a man who lives with you, that's what her friend Natasha said. But Sam's not her father. He's Maya's father. And he's not her stepfather. He's not married to her mom. _It's complicated,_ that's what Mom says. But Sam lives with them. So...

"Is Sam going to take me to the dance?" she asks. Her mother and Sam look at each other. They're all in the kitchen, Joy at the counter having her dinner and Sam over by the windows talking to her mom. They're both quiet for a minute.

"I thought you'd want to go with Uncle Cooper," Mom says finally. "He's your godfather, sweetie, and..."

Uncle Cooper wears a fancy suit when he picks her up. He brings her a little pink flower to wear on her wrist like a bracelet. He tells her she looks beautiful.

The room's all strung with fairy lights and she drinks fizzy pink soda from a cup. It makes her feel warm and happy and she loves the _tap tap tap _of her party shoes on the hard floors. Uncle Coop's one of the tallest men there. Only two people ask _Is that your dad? _Joy thinks about saying yes - just for pretend, just this once - but pretend is for babies. Uncle Cooper looks at her and maybe sees that she feels a little sad, because he says he knows a special way to dance. He lifts her up while the music plays, all the way up over his head. He twirls her around and she laughs.

When he holds her close she presses her cheek to his scratchy face and closes her eyes and just for a second she imagines what it would be like to have a father.

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><p>When she's nine - and this still embarrasses her a little - she thinks it's that he doesn't like her name.<p>

Her mother always says _I named you Joy because I wanted more than anything to be a mommy - _and here's where Joy wrinkles her nose because she's nine and she says _Mom _or _Ma _if she's annoyed, never _Mommy_ but just for this story it's okay - _and when I found out I was having you I was so happy I couldn't stop smiling. _Joy knows the story by heart so she prompts her. "And?" she asks. "And so I named you Joy so that whenever I said your name I would remember how happy you make me and I would smile."

Joy squirms into her pillows, a little embarrassed and pleased all at once to hear the story again. "I love you, Joy," Mom says as she kisses her goodnight, and sure enough she smiles when she says her name.

Sam and her mother are having alone time tonight. That's when Joy goes to Uncle Cooper's or to Aunt Amelia's. Her godparents. When she was younger she asked why they weren't married, if they were her two god_parents_ - everyone knows parents are supposed to be married - and they got all blushing and funny and weird and she's older now and wouldn't ask something so dumb. Charlotte's married to Uncle Cooper. Joy likes Charlotte and she likes spending the night at their house.

"How come you don't have kids?" Joy asks while they sit on stools at the kitchen counter, tearing up strips of newspaper for paper-mache.

"The only kid I like is you, sugar," Charlotte says and Joy giggles. When Uncle Coop makes a face at her she adds: "And Mason."

It's nice in their house with no other kids because they fuss over her, set her up with art projects and books and make her pancakes in the morning. Sometimes they all drive around like a family, go see a movie or eat at a restaurant. They listen to her knock knock jokes and say _wow _when she tells them about her science fair project. Here's her disloyal thought, the one that makes her feel guilty and small: someone passing by might think they're her parents. Joy has light brown hair, kind of like somewhere between Cooper and Charlotte.

"I like it at your house," she says when they drop her off, lingering a little in the car.

"We like having you." Charlotte kisses her cheek. "You're welcome any time, kiddo, you hear me?"

They watch her when she walks back into her house. Watch her for a long time. She can still see them when she shuts the door behind her.

"Welcome home, sweetie!" Mom gives her a big hug. Joy drops her sleepover bag to hug her back.

"Don't leave your things on the floor, Joy," Sam says as he passes her by. She sees his face, sees that he doesn't smile when he says her name. Not even a little.

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><p>When she's eleven, she thinks it's that he doesn't like labels.<p>

_Labels _means... what you call something. Like she's a fifth grader. And she's a girl. She's a goalie. She's a flower girl or a bridesmaid or something in between - flower girls should be babies and bridesmaids should get to wear cool dresses like Aunt Amelia.

_It doesn't matter what we call you, it just matters that you're there on this important day,_ her mother says.

"Are things going to change?" she asks.

Her mother gets a little pink in the face.

"Will Sam be my stepfather now?"she asks and her mother looks even pinker.

It's not that nice, but she asks the question kind of because she knows it will make her mom look nervous. She always looks nervous when Joy asks questions like that. Right now Mom looks shiny and perfect: beautiful and happy in her beige dress, with flowers in her hair, and a mean little part of Joy wants to spoil it.

"Labels don't matter," her mother says quietly. "We don't need labels. Right, Joy? You're my daughter and I love you and I always will. And Sam is - we don't need labels for Sam. He's always been there for us, right?"

She shrugs.

"Sam's a good man, Joy. We're lucky to have him. He's stuck with me through so much, and - we didn't want to get married until you were older, sweetie. Until you could understand."

"Understand what?" Joy asks.

But her mother can't seem to answer.

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><p>When she's twelve, she finally figures it out.<p>

"Do you like me?" she asks. She says it quietly, from the doorway of the Do Not Disturb Den. She stopped wanting to play with his paperweights or touch the brain model years ago, but he still locks the door every time he finishes in there.

He looks up. "What?"

"Do you-"

"I'm trying to work, Joy." He doesn't smile when he says her name. "Can't you play quietly somewhere else?"

She's twelve. She doesn't play anymore. Her room is spilling over with books. And other things.

"Sam-"

"Close the door behind you," he says. She does and walks away, pondering how many syllables it took for him to say _no._

Because she understands now.

It's not the toys.

It's not playing games.

It's not dancing, it's not her name, and it's not labels.

It's just her. She's what Sam doesn't like.

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><p>When she's thirteen, she stops asking questions.<p>

Sam doesn't ask questions either. _Where are you going? _he doesn't ask, when she waits until Mom's at the hospital with a patient in labor to make a quick whispered call, to hover by the door. _What's that on your face? _He doesn't ask when she passes him in the hall, lids grey and sticky from her mother's pilfered makeup. _Who are you going with? _He doesn't ask when the car pulls up in front of the house. _When will you be back? _He doesn't ask when she closes the door behind her, chilly from anticipation, from flimsy borrowed fabric.

Griffin's three years older. He can drive, something small and zippy, and the wind tangles her hair before they get to the party. It's hot and sticky inside but on the beach there's that cool breeze again. "You cold? he asks, looking at her. _Will there be parents there? _Something else Sam didn't ask.

Griffin has thick sticky-uppy hair and green eyes. They're warm when they look at her and he looks close, like he really sees her.

"A little."

His arm is heavy over her shoulders, rolled-up shirt rough and smooth all at once. "Here." He slips a bottle out from under his fleece vest. "This will warm you up."

She doesn't drink. Not really. But it's amazing how easily something you don't do becomes something you do. Maybe that's what happened in her house. Maybe that's what happened to him: something you didn't want - something you don't even like - becomes something you live with anyway.

Her hands shake, just a touch.

"Have some more, Joy," and he smiles at her when he says her name. So she takes the bottle from him, draws a long sip of warm liquid. It's smooth when she swallows, spreading through her belly, draining the knots in her chest.

"Who was that guy?" he asks. "At your house."

She takes another long sip before she answers. "Uh, that was Sam. He's married to my mom."

"He's your stepdad?"

She shakes her head, swallows again. "No. He's not my anything."

His brow furrows. "That's weird. I don't understand."

He's sitting close and now her cheeks feel warm too. Tingly. His hand finds its way to her thigh. It's nice, the way he looks at her.

"It's okay," she says, as his hand moves higher. "_I_ understand."

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><p><strong><em>Rachael's prompt just reminded me all over again how ridiculous and potentially desructive this situation is. Addison, next time you go to therapy, instead of just talking about how great Sam is, talk a little bit about how you spent your childhood craving the affection of an absent father and yet you're seemingly comfortable bringing a child into the home of a man who doesn't want that child. <em> **


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